Dress Suits Don't Suit You, Baby
by immer wenn es dunkel wird
Summary: de-anon from kinkmeme; It's some sort of twisted ritual shared between them; she all dolled up in her brother's tuxedo and he anxious to take the clothes right back off. /Belgium x America; smut/


_Dress Suits Don't Suit You, Baby_

| but i love how fragile you look...|

De-anon from Kinkmeme: This might be sort of weird: Character A cross-dresses and it's painfully obvious that the outfit is meant to flatter a body type Character A doesn't have. Character B _loves_ it, loves that these clothes don't fit right because, of course, they're not _supposed to_ fit someone shaped like Character A. The clothes can come off or stay on for sex, but everything should be consensual. (Part 23 – Page 31)

Note(s): I'm _all_ over the kinkmeme as of late and I decided to brush up and publish one of my literary escapades on .

Warning(s): Explicit sex and language; cross-dressing, rare!pair (Belgium x America) and, uh, morsels of history?

Summary: de-anon from kinkmeme; It's some sort of twisted ritual shared between them; she all dolled up in her brother's tuxedo and he anxious to take the clothes right back off. /Belgium x America; smut/

_I hereby disclaim any rights_.

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It's some sort of twisted ritual shared between them; whenever they visit each other's native continent, they would book a nondescript motel room just outside the capital where the meeting is to be held. He would make the reservations under a name plucked from a Herman Melville novel; he enthusiastically claims the entire business has this exciting CIA-feel, something from spy-movies or sinister detective stories.

Everything dates back to the late 1940's; Alfred had flown over to discuss the Germany-issue after World War II and in an act of concern, decided to make a quick stop in Brussels; to check up on her. She had been doing repairs in her chateau: the German soldiers had caused quite the havoc when they occupied her territory and her personal threshold had been violated as well.

His visit was completely unexpected; the rambunctious personification had been told to wait in the parlour by one of the scarce servants left. Blatantly ignoring the request, Alfred had practically bounced towards the second floor on the staircase. He had stated that she would be delighted to see him, he was so _sure_of it.

That's when he caught her in her boudoir; in front of a large mirror with a worm-eaten wooden frame. Her russet curls were tied back into a low ponytail, her face was bare from rouge and other grime. Alfred stared in shock at how petite she looked in the over-sized 30's dress suit. The sleeves of the vest hid her entire hands except for the tips of her index and middle fingers. Much too large for her legs, the pants fell straight downwards, completely hiding the curve of her hips and the trouser legs daggled on the floor when she took a step towards him.

Fascination budded; blossomed in the following course of years when Alfred insists to see her in that particular outfit again. She didn't understand, but she suspected; with how his pupils dilated and his cheeks flushed lightly.

He waits for her, seated on the wobbly mattress; he plucks his spectacles from his nose and wipes the glasses clean with the hem of his Superman shirt. Click goes the door; she stands in the doorway with her suitcase.

"Was about time, Bel-Bel." Alfred greets with a wide grin as she enters the room and closes the door behind him.

She raises her eyebrow, "Oh shut up, honey. Traffic was -how do you Americans put it?- a complete _bitch_." She places the trunk on the bed and opens the lid almost ceremoniously.

His tongue darts out to moisten his lips when he sees her older brother's tuxedo nicely folded in its confinements. "Washington DC, baby. Whatchu gonna do 'bout it?"

Her mouth eases into a smile; the blonde woman leans over to press a tender kiss against his jaw, "What I always do when I'm angry..." He twists his head with the intention to return the gesture but she playfully pulls back and continues her sentence, "I play dress-up." Her Peridot-like eyes twinkle mischievously.

Alfred can hardly wait for the fun to begin. Everything unfolds like it's scribbled down on script; she precariously pulls out the clothing articles and places them on mattress. In the mean time, he will inspect the bathroom and check if there's indeed a large mirror like promised by the receptionist. He lets out a chuckle in relief.

"Looking good o'er here, Bel." She saunters inside the bathroom, her nose scrunches at the poor hygienic state.

She drags a chair over to the low sink, casts a glance over her shoulder and states, "I suppose it'll have to do. But I'll scream if there are roaches."

He guffaws and stands directly behind her; "Gah, you're such a pussy." His fingers carefully tug on the scarlet ribbon in her golden tresses. Bel just hums lowly.

"Ready?" He glances at her reflection in the dusty mirror, there's a crack running diagonally from the right corner to the centre. She straightens her back and raises her chin before she gives him a nod.

Untying the knot of her headdress, Alfred lets the silk fabric slide through his index and middle finger before pulling the ribbon from between her locks. He combs through her hair and can't resist to kiss the crown of her head. She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

He makes a sloppy low ponytail; his blue irises narrowing around his pitch-black pupils as his fingers ruffle her bangs to give a more bedhead-impression.

"Good?" His voice is hoarse; the usual chipper tone dwindled to a more husky note.

Her lips twitch into a feral grin, "Just about fine, Alfred. Thank you." Curling around her upper arms, his fingers still twitch in anticipation.

Bel sets to work with her make-up bag; she grabs a bottle of Dove lotion and puts the white liquid on the palm of her hand. She dips two fingers in the puddle and smears the lotion over her face. Her cheeks are wiped clean of blush and foundation; her eyelashes are their natural blonde again and her face seems more childish, more round and appealing.

Alfred remarks, "There is my Bells." The plush pad of his thumb digs into the bare skin of her left arm.

Merely huffing, the blonde grabs a kohl-pencil from the Dior purse and pulls the plastic cap off. Pressing her upper lip harshly upon her bottom one, she expertly draws one curly line upon the visible flesh beneath her nose. She then completes her makeshift moustache by adding another stroke. She thickens the cartoon-esque moustache near her nose. Alfred's breath hitches and he releases her body, making space for her to stand up again.

"Help me undress." Bel whispers, her soprano streaked with artificial masculinity. He almost groans.

She kicks her flats off. First he unbuttons her H&M jeans and zips the fly open; then he pulls the trousers down her smooth shaved legs and she steps out of the pool of denim. She pulls the loose tank top over her head and drops the piece of clothing on the dirty linoleum tiles. Alfred resettles his glasses on the bridge of his nose when Bel unclasps her black bra and lets it slide from her torso. Walking over to the bedroom, the blonde pauses in the doorway to give him a meaningful look.

He can't help himself; he blushes and nearly rushes over to her. This is where the real fun starts.

Settling down on the bed, the personification of Belgium puts the beige button-up on and slowly, almost to tease, buttons the shirt. It's five sizes too big; the fabric falls mercilessly straight down, covering her torso. He can barely see her nipples straining against the almost transparent material. Alfred swallows and puts a hand through his unruly mop of wheat-blonde.

She looks even more tiny when she glides on the ebony-black vest; the shoulder-pads droop and make her look slightly ridiculous. Like a doll wearing adult human clothes. Bel stands up, her panties are hidden underneath the shirt. Then the pants are up; they fall off without a proper belt; so long, so straight, concealing the curve of her calves, the width of her upper legs.

Her cufflinks chime when she moves around and Alfred is aware of every tiny sound, how insignificant it may prove to be; the slight howl of the wind outside, the buzzing of the TLC-lights, the ruffle of her clothes, her shallow breathing.

When he pins his gaze on her face, on the eyeliner-moustache above her mouth, her lips curl into a feline simper, attractive in its own right. "So..." Bel starts, "How do I look?" She presses her knuckles against her mandible and juts her hip out, but the outfit conceals the action well.

Alfred grins, "Lookin' handsome." He circles her, "Nice tux, by the way." He appreciates the stark black, how the sleeves cover her entire hands and especially how petite she looks in those inappropriate clothes.

"Borrowed it from brother dearest." She waves with nonchalance, "Won't even notice it's gone."

"So he won't mind if we get it.. Oh, I dunno, a bit dirrrty?" He drags out the 'r' on purpose and stands straight in front of her.

Bel gives him a challenging look, eyes wide open, "He won't,... But I will."

Pouting like a petulant child, Alfred crosses his arms in front of his chest and tilts his head to the left. Her hands dart out and her fingers curl around the spectacle frame of his glasses; she picks them carefully from his face and walks over to the nightstand to deposit them there.

"Sit down on the bed.. Al-fred." She orders him; the demand being whispered against the shell of his ear. She chortles seductively when he staggers over and plops himself down on the mattress.

He squints his sky-blue eyes shut; his preference lies in listening to the loads of fabric rustle against her legs, to her footsteps approaching, the soles of her foot brushing against the cheap carpet. Sinking underneath the weight, the mattress alerts him of her attendance; she's taking the lead in her brother's lanky tuxedo and his cock twitches at the thought of her straddling him in those too-large pants. Alfred hisses out air when her fingertips trail down the expanse of his clothed chest.

"What are ya plannin', Bells?" He wonders aloud when the movement ceases. He can imagine her contemplating expression, the moustache crumpled as she purses her lips.

She chuckles deeply and one of the sleeves sweep over his cheek. He shudders. "I think.." Bel tempts, "No, I'm sure.. I want to suck you off." He jolts upright and stares at her, a toothy grin on his lips.

"Sounds _pretty_good at the moment." His mind is overrun by thoughts of her on her knees, the hem of her tuxedo vest dragging on the floor, her hands covered in sleeves touching his shaft. Alfred needs to get his pants off; *now*.

Bel sways off the mattress and he too stands up to pull his jeans and boxers off; he's anxious and enthusiastic; his pants end up crumpled in a corner of the motel room, discarded, his boxers befall the same fate, abandoned. Sitting on her knees in front of him, while he resumes his seat on the wobbly bed, the blonde woman spreads his legs a bit and settles down between them. Her sleeves brush against his bare skin and the effect is electric.

She gazes up at him; a small figure in overgrown clothes. Alfred licks his lips again, more throughout. He wants this so, _**so**_badly. Experimentally, she flicks her apex against the base of his erection; gently. Sighing contently at the first sensation, the blue-eyed man slumps his shoulders a bit.

Her tongue darts out again; she cleans his cock, lapping her way to the tip of his erection. He groans throatily, gripping the linen sheets. One of her hands fondles his ball sack; the blonde distinguishes bare skin and the velvet of her vest. Bel takes the head of his dick into her mouth and sucks noisily. Alfred bucks his hips; he wants to tangle his fingers into her golden curls and pull them from the ponytail. However, he refrains; she's in control now.

Gradually taking more of his erection down the cavern of her mouth, Bel envelops his erection with a slick, pleasant all overpowering warmth. All the while, the blonde cups his testicles in the velvet-covered palm of her hand. Alfred can't resist, he winds his fingers in the hair of the back of her head and pushes her closer to him, begging her physically to take him deeper. Her teeth scrape against his oversensitive cock and he growls lowly, in a feral manner.

She release his dick with a *pop*, staring up to him with half-lidded eyes. "Greedy, greedy." Bel scolds, her lips quirked in a smile. Her tongue flicks out to clean the tip of his cock from pearly precum. He moans in approval.

"Mo.. More." Alfred croaks out unabashedly. She acquiesces and uses one hand to jerk his shaft while her mouth occupies itself with the crimson head of his dick. He feels the slope of fabric brush against his hyper-aware skin.

She shifts closer, the ridiculously big shoulder pads of the vest stroking against the side of his shins when she gradually gobbles down more of his erection. Everything is moist and hot and *deeper, deeper, deeperdeeperdeeper* Alfred feels electric; his mind short-circuits when he stomps his feet accidentally stomps his feet down on the trouser legs of the tuxedo. She makes a slurping noise and the sound topples him over the edge; he cums violently and Bel steadily sucks him off until he's reduced to a mass of jittery nerves. His right foot trembles from the intensity.

"My turn." She decrees and he flops down on his back. Faintly distinguishing the bustle of her unbuckling her leather belt and pulling her pants down, the blonde nation takes a deep breath. He has a few ideas as what to happen next; he has stamina to spare and the thought of her in that oversized button-up, her tits barely straining against the fabric makes him half-hard again. Would she ride him? He hopes so. _God_, does he hope so.

Her moustache is blotched, Alfred notices before he directs his attention to the torso of the half-naked woman sitting next to his head on the mattress. "You're going to have to return the favour, baby." A few wayward strands slide down her cheeks.

"Well, uh, be my guest then." He jokes in a breathless voice. Her sitting on his face while the shirt pools like a halo around his head is a far better plan.

She grins, gently steadies herself a few inches above his mouth while facing the headboard, her knees folded on each side of his temples. He's surrounded by her and beige-coloured silk. His cock is completely hard again. She's wet and welcoming; her pussy is a deep shade of pink. His arms curl around the bulge of her calves. Alfred sweeps his tongue across her entrance, teasing. Bel mewls in response.

He latches onto her clit with his teeth, nipping at the bud with the right amount of audacity to make her moan out. The dress-like shirt rustles as she shifts. Alfred then sticks his tongue into her, filling her with the saliva-coated muscle and wiggling against her inner walls. She bumps her forehead against the wall, her catlike eyes closed at the foreign sensation.

He fucks her pussy with his tongue, thrusting in and out a few times; he feels her frame quake above him. Bel shakes her head wildly when she comes; behind her eyelids a hot white bursts and he eagerly laps up the juices of her arousal. Alfred motions for her to get off him.

"That was so fucking hot." He half-growls, half-compliments while she's leaning heavily against the headboard of the bed, the button-up covering her like a blanket. She almost looks flat in the garment.

Nothing but a thick black stripe is left from her artistic swirly moustache, perspiration having destroyed her handwork. Alfred's mouth is wet; her juices slandered over his lips and chin. She pants; her chest heaves and her breasts grow visible from underneath the wide shirt.

He crawls over to her, "Round three?" Bel stares at him, her hand fisting the material of his Superman shirt and tugs him into a soaring kiss.

When they break apart, both of their mouths are wet and she smirks dominantly, "You're going to fuck me into this mattress and if you ruin this Dolce and Gabbana button-up, you're going to _lick_it clean." His grin is wide.

Alfred is completely pleased when Bel pushes him down on his back again and looms over him like a panther. Her pupils are like marbles; ominous and big and pitch-black with a certain gleam. She lifts up his shirt and sucks on the skin directly below his navel, ignoring his erection. He groans in frustration but she keeps her focus solemnly on the love-bite. Pulling back to admire her crafty handiwork, she smirks up at him and he decides to retaliate.

Tugging on the wide poofy sleeves of the dress-like garment, she topples on top of him; her clothed breasts press against his clothed chest. He cups both of her cheeks in his hands and flashes her his triumphant grin. Bel pushes herself upright again and understands the implication.

"God, Alfred, you can be so impatient." She chastises before perching herself just above his erection.

He gives her a meaningful look, "Got me where I am today." She helps him guide his cock inside of her and he moans when she slides down.

Bel glides upwards again, slowly, so painfully slowly and she's so excruciatingly hot and tight and perfect. He feels the hem of her shirt flutter against his thighs and it's wonderful.

"In a.. ah.. a motel middleo'.. -gghn guh..- middle of nowhere." Her sentence is chopped with pants and groans.

His hands settle on her silk-encased hips; he lifts her up and takes the opportunity to thrust into her. His rhythm is fast and hard; but she enjoys the strong pace. Alfred almost slams into her: his cock strains against her inner walls, the hem of her shirt brushes against his bare skin, her breasts bounce underneath the button-up.

"Do.. you wan'me to pull it off?" Her fingers rest upon the first button and he feverishly shakes his head, moist blonde hair sweeping against his forehead.

He pushes her down on his erection and she cries out; she clenches around him and nearly falls over. Alfred doesn't stop but hurriedly thrusts into her a few more time before spilling his seed inside. His stomach is on fire and he's numb in his legs. She's panting loudly and rolls off of him, flat on her back.

Her hand gropes around and settles on his flaccid cock, stroking haphazardly. He turns his head lightly and exclaims, "Fucking into the mattress?"

"How'd you guess?" Alfred can hear the smirk in her voice and lets her jerk him back to a full-blown erection. Being the world's number one economical and military power has its merits in situations like these.

Taking on a different position, the American spreads her legs and notices how her thighs are slick with sperm and the juices of her vagina. His tongue darts out to moisten his bottom lip. He also notices how the button-up is damp from perspiration and other.. bodily fluids. Alfred supposes he can pay for the dry-cleaner. He leans over her, tangles one hand in her blonde curls -her ribbon seems to be gone and Alfred *knows* she'll make him look for it later on- and frenches her passionately.

His available hand sneaks underneath the beige garment, snaking upwards to the curve of her breast and he clenches the nipple between his thumb and index finger; tweaking it. She wants friction, the blonde can tell by how she writhes underneath him. He decides to humor her; perhaps she'll let the smudges on the shirt slide then.

Slinging one leg over his shoulder, Alfred accidentally makes the lowest button burst off but Bel's too aroused to care. *Good* he thinks to himself; she certainly has her brother's icy looks when she's angry. His cock pushes into her again and she shivers at the intrusion. Her irises are tiny rings of fiery green.

"I like you like this." Bel moans when he confesses this against her throat. "Dressed in your brother's tuxedo, writhing below me, wanting me to fuck you." He does; he feels powerful when she's hidden in layers of silk and velvet and designer suits. It rouses his instinct to protect her.

She lets him nip her chin before she breathily orders, "Shut up.. fuck, Alfred.. Get going.." He whips up a rhythm; powerful but tender. Alfred likes to add more force later on; when she's close to her orgasm.

Whilst fucking her, the American presses kisses against every inch of skin of her face; her cheeks are moist with sweat and his saliva; her mouth is violated by his tongue, all-demanding and overpowering, her throat is slick as well. His thrusts are less coordinated when he's closer to his third orgasm; he bashes more sloppily into her. She purrs his name in an elated mantra.

"Al-fred; Ah.. Alfred. Alfreeeh.. Uhn." She tilts her head back, her tresses cascading down her shoulders. "Mo... Oh..re. Alfred." This time his name comes out in a low whine.

He loses himself when her clothed arms twists above her head, the silhouette of her arms causing a contrasting shade in the beige of the sleeves. She comes when the blonde squirts inside her for the second time; quaking violently and her toes curling.

They rest for a few moments; her button-up is splattered with sweat, her own fluids and his semen. It satisfies him. This strange ritual satisfies him. Bel, curled up on his chest like a content kitten, satisfies him. Especially when she's dressed in her brother's tuxedo.

Alfred once asked her why she wore dress suits. Bel had told him that before her official independence in 1830; no other male nation would take her seriously. So with the help of Francis, she arrived at a meeting of the five most influential powers of Europe in London, dressed up in the season's fashion for men. Bel says she feels more dominant in a tux and a tie.

He gropes for his glasses and perches them atop of his nose, his fingers comb through her tresses lethargically. "Bells, babe?" She hums in acknowledgement.

"You're not really going to make me lick that shirt clean, right? 'Cause, uh, I don't think your brother's going to appreciate it. And he's scary as fuck." She laughs, lifts herself from his chest and presses a sweet kiss against the tip of his nose.

Their gazes lock and the Belgian woman says, "Alfred, honey; you're just going to wash it by hand." With the plush pad of his thumb, he wipes away the rest of her eyeliner-moustache.

"Hah, I can live with that."

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I had a blast writing this; hopefully you've enjoyed reading it as well ^^


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